


the ways we separate

by MelanieKS



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coercion, Dark, Human Trafficking, Humiliation, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Nudity, POV Second Person, Pre-Slash, Sexual Assault, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieKS/pseuds/MelanieKS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The girls are always more popular, always easier to tame, but more and more clients are requesting young men. Not yet ripe, hopefully still pure, and soft on the eyes. California is not sparse in that area, but you have high expectations and don’t back down from them for the sake of supply and demand. It may take weeks or months in finding the perfect one, and the clients are always thrilled with what you provide, even after such a long wait.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ways we separate

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned there are MANY triggers in this story, including non-graphic rape, drugs, beatings, humiliation, confinement, and emotional torture in order to make Stiles cooperate. You were warned. 
> 
> This story takes place in S2 when Stiles and Scott joined forces with the Hale pack at the rave to stop Jackson from killing again. From that point, it diverges from canon.

 

 

The new supply came early: four girls and one boy.

You wait on the edge of the loading dock as the van backs up, snuffing out the Marlboro beneath the heel of your boot. Arms folded, you let your employees open the doors and reveal the new acquirements with a flourish.

There’s always an excited anticipation that flutters in your chest to see what your men have gathered. You trust them to stick with the strict criteria when scoping out potentials and they haven’t failed you yet.

You nod with approval and motion for your men to haul the products into the building, following close behind.

Locations are changed with each attainment in order to evade detection. No transactions for building properties are made in anything but cash and aliases. The buildings are usually abandoned industrials that haven’t sold in several years, so you rent them out for several months at a time and then move on to the next installation when a new shipment is picked up. Buildings are temporary also for the sake of preening the products before purchase. You have to make sure each one is fully ready before any exchange of money is completed with your clients.  

Over a decade in this business and you’ve established a sound reputation with repeated clientele as well as newcomers through word of mouth. You have a specific taste when it comes to the products and clients don’t disappoint with the amount of money he or she is willing to fork out. There are never complaints when you raise the prices, they keep coming back and you are not one to fail.

The girls are always more popular, always easier to tame, but more and more clients are requesting young men. Not yet ripe, hopefully still pure, and soft on the eyes. California is not sparse in that area, but you have high expectations and don’t back down from them for the sake of supply and demand. It may take weeks or months in finding the perfect one, and the clients are always thrilled with what you provide, even after such a long wait.

You pay closer attention to the boy, kneeling down where he’s sprawled on the floor of the room designated for him, and you appraise him at a different angle. Your men never disappoint you and you are quite pleased with this one. He is still compliant from the dosage of Rohypnol, just scraping the edges of consciousness, which is the perfect time to start stripping him of his old identity and introduce him to the new one.

He’s mid-adolescent as his smooth and pale skin mottled with moles is an advantage, making him appear younger, along with the buzzed hair that drags more attention on his face. Child-like looks with long, thick lashes and a full mouth that will be his selling ticket, and you are definitely happy with this asset. He will bring in a hefty sum.  

Two of your men are put in charge of removing his clothes and disposing him of anything on his person that may tie him back to his previous life. Wallet. Car keys. Cell phone, which was destroyed long before your men came here, but given to you nonetheless. They know better than let anything incriminating come back on you or your business.

You study the boy’s identification card as his garments are tossed in a pile outside the door for proper discarding in the furnace.

Sixteen. M. ‘Stiles’ Stilinski. Five foot ten inches. Brown hair. Brown eyes. From Beacon Hills, California.

You rifle through the rest of the wallet, finding a keycard for the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department, a library card, some old movie ticket stubs, a debit card, twenty bucks in cash, an overdue parking ticket, and two separate photos that show signs of age and wear on the edges from being taken out and stuffed back in its place at the back of the wallet over and over. One is of the boy with an older man in a Sheriff’s uniform, which is obvious the nameplate on the older man’s shirtfront relates them. Father? Uncle? Most likely father as you study the photo for a moment longer, finding the resemblance as well. You toss the photo aside and look at the other photo. This one of a woman with similar color hair and eyes as the boy, with a sweet smile and an affectionate stare directed at the camera.

The boy moans deep and gruff, tries rolling over on his stomach, but he can’t get his limbs to work right while still under the drug’s influence. He ends up sagging back down in an uncoordinated heap, cheek pressed against the cement, mumbling nonsensical stuff you don’t care listening to. His eyes can’t focus on anything for too long before they roll back in his head.

You step back and let your men pick him up and drag him toward the makeshift showers. There is no hot or even warm water in this place. Besides you think the cold water sends a clear message that luxuries no longer exist or they must be earned with good behavior. However, more often you let the clients decide that and keep comfort at a bare minimum while in your keep.

After he is doused with a hard spray of ice cold water, there’s no doubt the boy is awake now. He yelps and his limbs flail around like one of those stupid blowup wiggly tubes with the floppy arms and wavy body advertising some sales event for a department store. He tries scuttling away from the spray, but he’s held down in order to clean off the grime from the transport. He chokes and screams out: “Stop! Stop!” Eyes shut tight, he shakes his head, spitting out water.

The water is turned off. Teeth chattering, he settles down long enough to gather his surroundings, his roaming eyes stopping at you and you have to refrain from gasping at how beautiful and innocent he is. Mouth slack as he breathes hard from the sudden rush of adrenaline and his eyes owlish with the perfect shade of pink spotting his cheeks.  

“Where…where am I?”

“Your new home.”

 

===

 

Shock settles in first. Then comes denial followed by anger and then a mixture of bargaining, depression, and acceptance by the end. They all accept eventually. It is natural to go through these stages and you let them ride the waves of their emotions, not denying them that little bit. But when you have one that clings to humanity tooth and nail you have to devise methods in order to mold the kids into the products desired by your clients.

Some may call it torture, but you prefer psychological reconditioning.

The boy has a tenacious spirit that requires more of your attention than any of the others. He whips out sarcasm with a quick wit and has reflexes you have never seen from a tall and scrawny kid like him before.

Only five days have passed; you can’t expect him to assume his fate with open arms, not yet. That spirit is nothing that can’t be broken with the right amount of perseverance and fortitude. Good thing you have a shitload of patience or else the boy would be crow’s food in the dumpster out back with the amount of bullshit he has spewing from his mouth. Not to mention you already have clients that want to meet him after showcasing his photos on your encrypted website. He’s racking it up in the popularity department, money for him going higher than any other bid before.

For that reason alone you put up with his attitude, because you know in time you will quench that roaring flame to glowing embers and bask in the afterglow once payment is received.

 

===

 

When you call out his new name ‘Sammy’, he flips you off with a snarl, and you grab him by the neck and toss him facedown on a table so hard he passes out for about five seconds. Comes back around wheezing and grappling for purchase on the table’s edge as you shove his sweatpants down. Your other hand is still a firm force around the back of his neck, keeping him trapped. You kick his feet apart and he bucks and twists.

“Nono don’t—“

The girls are present, huddled on the sofa of the common room, forced to watch. You do this sometimes as a lesson, more so for the one who retaliates than anyone. Humiliation is a powerful tool in coercion.

You show him a useful method for the middle finger and jam one inside of him without preparation. His body shudders and he chokes on some high-pitched gurgle. Remind him this is his life now and he belongs to you, as you shove harder until his head flops down on the table with a resounding thud. You say his new name; demand he say it and you prod deeper inside him until he cries out.

Pulling out, he gasps, and you release him. Your finger is red with blood and you wipe it off on his hair. He crumbles like a puppet with no strings, his pants still caught around his knees as he cowers on the floor with a whimper. Satisfied, you order that he be deprivedof any clothing from here on out, let the reality of his situation sink in deep, and then walk away.

“St-Stiles.”

You hear that name through a wheeze and you stiffen, looking over your shoulder.

Whiskey brown eyes lift and stare at you – penetrate with an icy rage that sends chills along your spine. His fire is blazing hot and bright, and as much as you find it striking, you need to put it out soon or he won’t be suitable for purchase.

“Stiles. My name is Stiles.”

You fill the space in one stride, kneeling down at his eye level, and instinct has him shuffling back in spite of the fury scorching in his glare. Still, he lifts his chin in a show of defiance and sniffs. He doesn’t cry though his eyes are glistening with unshed tears.

His chin quivers, his entire body shaking with furious tremors. “My name is…Stiles, you masochistic asshole. I won’t let you take that from me. It’s Stiles! You hear—”

The slap resonates like a piercing clap of thunder in the sky. His cheek blooms a stunning shade of red, his mouth slack with surprise more than pain. Instead of reacting with the anger climbing inside of you, a simple smile spreads your lips thin. The gesture calms you, but elicits terror in the boy’s doe eyes. He can act as brave and insolent as he wants, but fear is an emotion that can never be masked. It is raw and uncompromising.

You wait for him to act out again, hand curling into a fist, but he keeps quiet.

Good, one step at a time.  

 

===

 

The girls learn fast to keep their mouths shut and heads down, most of them putting a safe distance between them and the boy.

‘Sammy’ doesn’t learn so well. That pretty mouth of his gets him into far too much trouble and your patience starts fraying. There is no brain-to-mouth filter and he lets out whatever is on his mind, which usually ends up with him collapsed on the floor, favoring a new bruise.

When the snark continues for another two days, you take out the photo of him and his dad and shove it in his face. The wide-eyed fear staring back at you makes your blood pump faster. You threaten his dad’s life; tell the boy he will watch his dad bleed out if he doesn’t start obeying. You recite his address and remind him you know exactly where to find his dad and make him suffer for his insolence.

That shuts him up for at least another day or so. Then you repeat the process. You keep working with him, beating him into submission until he’s a small, feeble animal whimpering in the corner of the room. Silent weeping wracks his body until he passes out from exhaustion. Bruises are a stark and gorgeous contrast on his pale skin, but you know you have to refrain from too much harm or else he’s damaged goods.

 

===

 

Every night you watch him cry himself to sleep. Not just silent tears, but full body quaking sobs that leave him gasping and a mess of snot on his face and the mattress. He calls out names, the same ones every night.

In his room, locked away from the others, he exposes his vulnerability like a neon sign flashing bright on the side of a darkened road. By morning, the tears are wiped away and he shoves those coarse, aching emotions down and lets the hellion emerge for a new round of insubordination.

You can’t help but admire him a little more, which contradicts every bit of reason where it concerns your business. Every day, this boy keeps getting under your skin in new infuriating ways. You wonder if he’s stupid or just impossibly brave.

But even the most courageous of souls have a breaking point.

 

===

 

He has grown used to his nakedness. Doesn’t shy away or try covering himself anymore. He walks with a new sense of confidence, head held high with a promise smoldering in his eyes every time he looks at you.

A promise for revenge.

You smile back at him.

 

===

 

The box is your favorite.

You don’t have to use it often, but those rare occasions you have it works without fail. Twenty-four hours without food and water and light, and barely any room to stand or sit up straight will put a haunting and visceral strain on the psyche. When kids emerge from the box, their gazes are different as if they are seeing things, horrible and terrifying images.     

After the boy tries escaping, you have him locked in the box. He screams until he doesn’t have a voice for two days after.

For a week, he obeys without question. Keeps his pretty mouth shut and his head down.

All that confidence from before is extinguished.

At least for the time being, as you know this one won’t give up that easily.

 

===

 

You notice the boy sticks around one girl in particular. She has dark auburn hair and a doll face with cheeks that haven’t yet given up their baby fat. She is the smallest of the group, the runt of the litter, and she cries a lot.

He is by her side, vigilant and protective, as much as he can. He consoles her, holds her hand with quiet, uplifting words of hope.

He still clings to that silly notion and you let him because when that moment comes when you crush it, you look forward to capturing his face.

 

===

 

Five weeks and you have to threaten the box after he throws his food tray at one of your men who go for the red head when she refuses to eat.  

At first, he cowers away from you and his body jolts at the memory, but then that rage ignites his eyes again and he challenges you. Even stands up tall, fists at his sides, as he spits at you.  

“They’ll find me. My friends…my dad. They’ll find me and kill you.”

You just smile back at him, wiping away the spittle with a measured flick of your wrist, and that alone sends a visible ripple of dread throughout his body. His mouth closes and he swallows, knows what is coming.  

He doesn’t scream nearly as long in the box this time around.

 

===

 

For almost a week, you don’t hear much out of the boy aside from catching him whispering to the red head while they watch television with the others in the common room. There’s not much the tangled antenna picks up other than infomercials and soap operas on the tiny screen, but it is enough to keep them distracted during long, boring stretches of the day.

He doesn’t dare look at you when you enter, but his body can’t betray your presence as it tenses. Lean muscles pulled taut underneath skin painted with waning bruises. He has his knees drawn up, hiding himself, his eyes shielded as he turns his face away.

Progress.

 

===

 

You really thought he was coming around, learning his place and accepting what can’t be changed.

Maybe you let your guard down too much, trusted too fast. No doubt he took advantage of that.

One thing you know for sure is that he is too stubborn and doesn’t know when to quit. That will be his downfall.  

He tries another attempt at escaping, but drags the red head along with him. That was a stupid, reckless move. They almost make it outside the fence before your men catch them and drag them back, kicking and screaming. The girl’s left leg is broken during the scuffle, a useless and wrecked nuisance trailing behind her.

You hate that it has to come to this, but he has to learn. You have to show him who runs this place and where he stands on the hierarchy of things. The only way to do that is break his spirit, his hope, and whatever anchor he’s holding onto. This is his new life. He is a tool, a piece of property, and nothing more.

Shooting the red head isn’t something you enjoy. Not when you lose profit, but you know this message is loud and clear like a blaring horn right in the boy’s face, a punch in the gut that leaves him breathless and hurting for days.

He begs you to spare her, to take his life instead. Oh no, that won’t do. He says he is sorry over and over and over, sputtering out apologies and pleading for her life. You make him watch as you pull the trigger and her head explodes in a spray of blood and brain matter, most of it splashing on the boy. He recoils with a disgusted, choking noise and then he retches.

You snatch the back of his neck and pull him toward the body, his limbs a clumsy, flailing mess. He tries fighting you, put distance between himself and the gore, but collapses as you push him down until his nose is pressed against the seeping blood around her ruined skull.

A mangled cry rips out of him as he stammers: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Sorrysorrysorrysorry. Please. Please. I’m sorry.”

“This is your fault. You killed her.” You shake him by the scruff of his neck like a disobedient puppy that pissed in the house and make him look at the other three girls crowded on the sofa with terror a tangible thing emanating from their quaking bodies. “I will kill them one by one until you cooperate. Do I make myself clear? Say it!”

“Yes! Yes! I promise! Please don’t—“

You release him and he doesn’t catch himself in time before his arms give out and he falls on the body. He just rolls away, curling in on himself and cries until he runs dry.

He doesn’t attempt another escape.

You found that breaking point.

 

===

 

Twelve weeks.

You make the deadline, though with a little more snags than usual, but still count it as a win.  

Mr. B, one of your highest paying clients, messages you about wanting a sneak peek of the kids in person before the official auction begins in a few days. When he is willing to pay an extra 10K just for a preview, you can’t pass him up.

You have them line up, all naked this time, ready for viewing and evaluation. Four guards stand around the room, guns in holsters, but safety off. No chances are taken despite knowing Mr. B well enough that he is just a lonely, rich man pining for companionship. Or just sex without sugarcoating it.

The boy stands at the end of the line – save the best for last you always say – as still and silent as the remaining girls. A shadow has crept over his face, his eyes glassy with a perpetual sadness. That’s all right. So long as he gives your clients what they pay for, you don’t care.

Mr. B assesses them in a deliberate and quiet manner, arms clasped behind his back. He is a short man, but built strong and hearty, capable of handling the rowdy ones without trouble for his stature. When he shows a particular interest in one, he will stroke a hand through their hair, down their face. Subtle and gentle caresses, but nothing you won’t step in and mediate.

There are boundaries during previews, and Mr. B never crosses them. He respects you and your business too much by putting a black spot on his long-standing rapport.

He makes it to the end of the line and whistles low as he walks around the boy, gathering in every inch of his naked body with a scrutiny filled with hunger. Mr. B never showed interest in the same sex before and you know you hit the jackpot.

The bruises have long faded and you were careful to never leave scars. Fair and unblemished skin grabs a higher price than something tarnished.

“Oh, he is beautiful.”

The boy can’t help reacting with a tiny flinch, the skin beneath his right eye twitching and nostrils flaring wide, but he doesn’t move otherwise. Keeps staring at the floor like a good pet, hands loose at his sides just the way you told him to.

“His name is Sammy,” you say and challenge the boy to protest, but he doesn’t give any indication he heard you.

His hair has grown out in the last three months; that perfect length to grab a fistful and hold on. Mr. B takes advantage of it and tugs his head back to study his face at a different angle. You watch as the boy’s hands clench and unclench, his breath quickening. Eyelashes flutter with the rising panic you notice seizing his lean muscles, but he keeps it at bay, knows the consequences if he steps out of line.

“May I?” Mr. B looks to you for permission and you nod. He fills that small space between him and the boy, pressing his face in the crook where neck meets jawline and inhales. Makes a small titillating sound at the back of his throat and reaches behind to grab the boy’s ass.

He jumps and squeals, reacting with that innate need to get as far away from the offending touch as possible, and pushes Mr. B back with enough force to land him on his ass. Your men surge forward and restrain the girls, while two of them jump the boy in an instant, bringing him down to his knees and arms wrenched behind him. You half expect Mr. B to roar with insulted anger, but he only laughs as he stands and brushes his suit off.

That is a surprise.  

“I like him!”

A wave of relief settles in your bones and you let out the air you were holding in.

But the boy isn’t finished. His fiery, tenacious spirit claws its way to the surface, and he spits out: “I’m not your fuck toy! You don’t own me! I will never let you touch me you ugly sack of wrinkly shit! I will kill you!”

Disappointment is squashed by fury and you seethe. Before you can lash out with a fist and silence him, you have your men take him out of your sight. They know where to put him until you have dealt with your client. He is carried out with two men at his legs and another holding his arms as he thrashes and twists with a savage rage. His screams echo on the cinderblock walls with his relentless fight for a life that he will never have again.

It is a pity you may have to dispose of him. He could have made you a nice profit.  

Mr. B looks a little shaken, more so from shock than fear, and you appease him with promises that’ll never happen again, guiding him away to a more secluded area. The rest of your men watch the girls, but they know better than to do anything rash.

“I want him,” Mr. B says through a hoarse whisper, his voice tinged with an excitement you haven’t witnessed before. “What will it cost me to have him now?”

You shake your head. “He’s not ready. I had hoped he would be, but as you can see—“

“Five hundred thousand.”

You blink hard. “For one night?”

“Yes. Consider it a down payment. A test drive, as you will.”

“Oh.” The edges of your mouth curl up. “Well then. Make the arrangements with your bank and I’ll have him ready in an hour. But remember, he will have to remain restrained – for your safety, of course.”

“That’s fine.”

You shake hands, sealing the deal.

 

===

 

Angry, bitter threats turn into pitiful, haunting screams that sputter into begging and then silence as the boy’s innocence is plucked and defamed repeatedly throughout the long and early hours of the night.  

If he hasn’t learned his place yet, he has now.

 

===

 

At dawn, time is up and Mr. B comes to you with a blissful, post-sex glaze over his eyes and he grins. He congratulates you on finding the boy and leaves with the promise he will have the rest of the payment transferred before the end of the day.

You and two of your men check on the boy. The small room reeks of sex and you find him in a mess of semen and blood, his face hidden in the bend of his arm, body shaking with quiet sobs. Long scratches enflame his skin along his ribs, some leaving deep crescent-shaped scores. Other than that, he shows no other signs of injury.

Once his hands and feet are untied, he recoils and contorts his body into a small ball at the corner of the mattress. Shivering, his eyes are wild, teeth bared.

“You did good.”

He barks out a short, derisive laugh as a stray tear leaks down his face. “Rot in hell, asshole.” His voice is abraded, just above a whisper from the constant abuse of screaming.  

You motion toward the bundle of blankets deposited at the foot of the mattress – something he has been withheld since you took his clothes privileges away – along with water and food and wipes to clean off with. He doesn’t move as he stares at a random spot on the wall, more tears striping his face.

When you leave, the door closed and locked behind you, a ragged, hollow yell erupts, a sound that can only come up from the depths of a ruined soul. Then something bangs against the door, no doubt a water bottle.

You walk away, leaving him alone with his pity.

 

===

 

An unexpected call comes from a new client that wants to establish a relationship with you for future endeavors. Heard through the grapevine that you supply boys and this client wants to see what your particular set of taste procures.

For a moment you hesitate simply for the fact that the boy is already purchased, but you are willing to entertain the client for a fee, of course. Payment is transferred to the secure bank account and you setup the meet for the next day.

 

===

 

Most people who seek you out are not attractive, but not ugly by any means. They are just average, plain-looking people who wouldn’t receive a second glance on the streets. That is why they come to you. Out of desperation to sate the need human bodies have for satisfaction when they can’t find it elsewhere.

This new, potential customer is handsome and young. Sleek and broad-shouldered with a perfect trimmed beard framing a chiseled jaw and light eyes that are keen. He belongs on the cover of a GQ magazine, not in a dump looking for a quick fix from underage boys.  

But who are you to judge? Least of all you, especially when customers fulfill their end of the bargain, you can’t complain or wonder what they do outside these walls. They honor your business and vice versa.  

He goes by the name Miguel and you don’t question it. A lot of your clientele like to keep anonymity and you respect that privacy so long as they regard your rules.

Rather than the usual preview in the common area, you have the boy brought to a large space that once was used as a conference room for whatever business occupied this building before, more for discretion sake than anything. One guard stands behind the boy and another behind you and the customer. Miguel stands beside you as the boy is escorted inside and you hear the rapid intake of air when he gathers him in.

He was dosed with a light tranquilizer to keep him tame the last few days, as his outbursts intensified to a new level of mania since Mr. B left to make arrangements for his new acquirement. Eyes are dull and his muscles weak, but he is aware. He can stand on his own, though he sways a little on his feet, swallows hard and tries focusing on the room. Lingers on Miguel and his brows pull together with confusion, his jaw goes lax.

“Why is he sedated?”

“His owner requested it.”

That is a lie, of course. You dare not admit you can’t keep the little brat under control.

“Hmm,” Miguel hums and steps forward, but still far enough that he can’t touch the boy, folding his arms across his chest. Arm muscles flex and his jaw tics. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from the boy. “What is your age limit?”

“Minimum twelve and no older than sixteen.”

His jaw twitches again. “You have good taste,” he says, but it seems strained, almost as if it's painful to get out.

You nod, but watch him closer. There is something off about him.

“Do you want me to place you on a waiting list? I plan on gathering a new supply in six months.” 

“That’s a long time. Why the long wait?”

“Just the rules of the trade,” you say with an offhanded shrug. No way will you divulge the workings of your business with a stranger, not even if he was a continuing paying customer.

“You said he is already accounted for?”

“Yes. Paid in full.”

“How much? I’ll counter it.”

You shake your head. There is a certain trusting status you uphold, and you will not swindle a deal behind Mr. B’s back, no matter the profit in it for you. That is why your customers keep coming back; they can rely on you.

“That’s not up for negotiation.”

Miguel swivels his head toward you and you swear his eyes glow red for a moment. You blink and figure it was a trick of the light. His hands are tight fists as he lowers his arms, the muscles of his shoulders rigid with tension.

“How much? Twenty thousand? One hundred thousand? Five hundred? What is he worth?”  

This conversation is over. You wave for the guard behind the boy to take him away, but then he surprises you by saying: “Kill him, Derek. Kill them all.” Cool and casual, but bursting with loathing.

It sinks in seconds after the boy knows Miguel – or Derek – and then you have a face full of a morphed out monster with blood red eyes and inhuman claws and teeth. Before you can scream at the horror in front of you, before your men can even shoot at it, you hear rather than feel those ugly nails puncture your stomach and tear up, breaking through ribs and tendons. Then he tosses you down and you feel every nerve fire off in gruesome pain. Pain you never thought possible. Pain all encompassing and almost surreal and you wonder if it really is.

Blood gurgles up and over your tongue, down your chin, and you choke. You watch with some sort of hazy sense you’re dreaming as he slashes the throats of your men within a single heartbeat. The boy is stoic as he observes with an air of stillness, as if he is content with these unforeseeable turn of events.

Your vision teeters on the precipice of blacking out, and the last thing you see is the monster approaching the boy; tells him something you can’t make out and the boy nods before his face screws up with a broken, quivering sob. A small sound escapes him as fresh tears roll down his pale cheeks. His body slumps sideways and he lets the monster carry him away. 

 

\- fin

**Author's Note:**

> Just to make it clear, Derek is not the villain here. He is there to rescue Stiles. He went 'undercover' in order to find out what he was dealing with and once he saw Stiles, he couldn't hold back the rage. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> This is now the first part in a short series. Next is Derek's POV as a continuation where this one left off.


End file.
